


haunted (acoustic)

by groove_bunker



Series: Please Ignore the Pronouns [fanmix fic] [6]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Drabble, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groove_bunker/pseuds/groove_bunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time ever, Helena G. Wells, daughter of literature professors, writer of poetry, short stories, novels, has no words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	haunted (acoustic)

**Author's Note:**

> HG's perspective again!

“Helena...I can’t do this anymore.”

Those were the words that were still hanging in the air between the two of you, because neither of you really knew what _this_ was and you’re pretty sure you can feel your heart crumbling more with every second that passes. Myka’s trying to maintain eye contact, but you can’t bring yourself to look at her.

“I’m going to Harvard after Christmas, early acceptance.”

You’re not even angry and you can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing. You want to be furious, to tell her that she can’t just turn around one day and tell you, when you thought everything was fine. You knew it was fragile, it always had been. _Myka_ always had been. But you thought it was safe, for now.

“This...us...I made a mistake. I thought I could do it, but I can’t.”

The M word was the one thing you’d prayed she wouldn’t say. You could have dealt with anything but the idea that this had been a mistake. The nights under the stars, the 2am phone calls, stolen, gentle kisses as you walked her to her door. It didn’t feel like a mistake to you, but obviously, you and Myka were on very different pages when it came to the two of you. You want to slam the door in her face, because suddenly you’ve found your anger and it’s pulling you under, obscuring your vision when all you want is to see things clearly.

See them how Myka sees them.

“Helena, say something.”

You bite your tongue before the bitterness of your anger can settle in between the two of you. For the first time ever, Helena G. Wells, daughter of literature professors, writer of poetry, short stories, novels, has no words. You don’t like the feeling of the strangled syllables in the back of your throat, fighting to get themselves into some kind of order.

You want to tell her not to go, to wait for you. You’ll be going to college soon, you can go together, even if it’s not to the same place. You want to tell her that you and her could be so much more if she just wouldn’t run away but you know she’s scared. You’re not fearless yourself; you’ve planned out every single way things could go wrong. It’s why you’ve not pushed anything, why you’ve stood back until Myka makes the first move.

This wasn’t the first move you were expecting.

The words don’t come, but the music does. The songs that chart the last few months suddenly come spewing from your mouth, from the tune that you danced to that first night, when all you knew was her name and the fact that she was the most beautiful girl in the world, to the song that you’d danced to last night, at the winter dance in front of everyone who cared to watch.

Myka just stands there as you hum and tears fall down your face.

When you finish, she turns and walks away.

You’re pretty sure that image will haunt you for the rest of your days. 


End file.
